


Taste the Way That You Bleed

by shealynn88



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Dubious Consent, M/M, Monster Dean Winchester, Season/Series 05, Sex Pollen style dub con, the vamp blood made him do it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 10:20:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20006704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shealynn88/pseuds/shealynn88
Summary: Based on the song prompt "Kill of the Night" by Gin Wigmore - Dean is turned by a nest of feral vampires and Cas tries to heal him.“Drive us back, and then get food.  He’ll need meat.  Iron.  He’ll be hungry.”“Is he gonna be okay?”Castiel couldn’t answer.  There was likely to be more hunger to come, but he’d feed that when it rose, however it manifested.





	Taste the Way That You Bleed

_Assault_. The whole fucking world was overwhelming. Blinding light, scent of garbage and cement thick in Dean's throat, hunger scrabbling inside him like a living thing. Flavor, overpowering on his lips - the honey sweet taste rolling over him like a storm, an orgasm. He felt reborn. New and fresh, every inch of skin over-sensitive and eager. 

The hunger rose, hollowed and burned him, turned him inside out. He licked his lips incessantly - honey, wine, _need_. And then the scent, light and distant, a hint of something like food. 

Instinct crushed any semblance of thought under the desperation of the hunt.

* * *

Castiel could hardly understand Sam, he was so frantic. _“...nest-they’re different, wild, and they_ got _him, Cas, I think..._ fuck, _he bit me and I don’t -”_ There was something like a sob, a broken sound that terrified Cas more than the end of the world, more than the hopeless hunt for his Father. _“Cas, I don’t know what - he needs you, you have to -”_

“Sam. _Sam!_ Where? Where are you?”

* * *

Castiel balanced on a knife's edge of inaction and indecision as Sam explained about the nest of vampires - _feral,_ he kept saying - acting like Croats, like zombies, like rougarou - mindless and hungry. Castiel examined his memories for something like it and came back with ancient things, nosferatu and the original undead, ugly and wild and - and now Dean was one of them. One of these monsters. It was a poetic turn fit for an epic - Dean becoming what he'd spent his life hunting. Castiel knew how those stories ended. 

“You need me to kill him,” Castiel said numbly.

“What? _No!_ No, I need you to _fix_ him!”

“Sam.” Castiel felt empty. Hollow and heavy. “He’s a monster now.”

“No.” Sam shook his head stubbornly, Dean-like in his infuriating unwillingness to accept reality. “There must be something. You’re an _angel_ , Cas.”

Cas took a breath. His mind was racing, but he kept his voice even. “We don’t even know what he is, Sam. We need to study one of the creatures. Understand what they are. And if we do that, more people will die. Are you willing to sentence strangers to death?” 

“What? No, of course not! But, Cas, I...I _need_ him. _You_ need him. It’s bigger than us. It’s about the end of the world, right? And I have blood. I got it from one of the vamps, thought maybe you’d need it for a cure or something. Will that work?”

Castiel hesitated. Fought the hope that rose up like a threat. “It’s a start.”

Sam retrieved the vial and Castiel closed his eyes, looked closely with his Grace and the eyes hidden under his vessel - numerous and angelic and more useful for this sort of seeing. He was deeper than was strictly advisable with something so ancient and evil. The call was dark there, charged and hungry, seeking something to infect, something to create in it's own image. Castiel tried to press deeper, to separate out the virus from...whatever, whoever, the blood belonged to before they were changed. It was impossible to know exactly where the divide was, which strand of DNA belonged to what.

He came up slowly to find Sam staring at him. Castiel shook his head. “It’s not good, Sam. The changes are viral, genetic. It would be easier to raise him from the dead than to reverse this process. Every cell of him is altered. It’s dangerous.”

It was right to believe that Dean was beyond hope. Everything in the sample of infected blood told him the Dean he knew was gone.

“Dangerous, sure,” Sam offered. “But, is there a chance? Just.. _any_ chance?”

Castiel considered the possibilities. The outliers, the loopholes the Winchesters always managed to exploit. 

Sam was right. Right to call, right to hope. There had to be _something_. There had to be something because there was no future for Castiel in a world where Dean wasn’t. And in the blood of a stranger, he couldn't separate the virus from the human. But he _knew_ Dean. Knew his DNA. And he could pinpoint the most insistent bits of the virus, the hungriest, most infectious strands.

“With this blood, maybe,” he said, heaving a sigh as he thought out loud. “With my knowledge of Dean, with a knife of Hecate. Dragonsbane. Sage...”

“Really? I have those,” Sam said, voice so hopeful Castiel looked away. “In the pharmacy box, and we have the knife from that job in Jacksonville...I have those!” And he dashed out the door toward the Impala.

* * *

It took less than an hour, and Castiel pointedly ignored Sam as he measured and mixed and sliced his arm open with Hecate’s blade and mixed the blood together in a paper cup, crushed the Dragonsbane and sage and sniffed the results as if he knew what that first spark should smell like. As if he had no concerns that the dark brew would kill him the moment he tried to bring that spark to life. He’d have to put so much of himself into it - splicing the vampire’s blood with the DNA he had memorized, using the edge of the knife’s magic to pull it apart, then pressing in the primordial fire of his Grace to bind it all back together into something new. If it failed, he would too. 

When he forced his Grace into the cup, he knew immediately that it was too far and imprecise. For a moment he considered giving up, suggesting that Sam could work alone. That a hunter and an angel was better than nothing at all. But one glance up told him all he needed to know - it was too late to say it couldn’t be done. Not without trying everything.

He steeled himself and swallowed the thick mixture. It went down bitter - burnt and clotted, _death_ \- on his tongue and then coating his throat and then, finally, heavy in his stomach.

“Close your eyes,” he told Sam, and he tried again, true form shining as he fought to change the darkness into new seeds, ready to infect Dean with humanity. 

With a fresh press of grace, swallowed by the darkness, cut open agonizingly with the magic of the knife and the darkness of the blood, he forced the poison into an antidote. Trusted that it wouldn't rewrite him as well, that his grace could hold it at bay and burn it off over time. Finally, he slumped, pressed himself back into his body. “I have it,” he said weakly.

His body was now the vessel of Dean’s salvation, if such a thing existed.

* * *

When the smell hit him, Dean stumbled and nearly fell. _Jesus_. If that last remembered taste had been a honey sweet orgasm, this was a supernova shivering into being, waiting to be pressed into and devoured. 

He chased it. Animal-like, feet quick and sure, even on the walls, bouncing up and over fences and dumpsters and into fire escapes and onto roofs and then back down to where the smell was strongest. 

The hunger was an entity of it’s own - it clung like a black cloud, gnawed through his entire abdomen, whispered through him like a promise or a threat. It swirled low and dark and primal, another kind of hunger. A pit was open there, a black hole that could only be filled with this - the smell of stars and lightning - the entire world compacted into this intoxicating scent.

His prey wasn’t even afraid - seemed to welcome him as he launched himself forward, unerringly pinning arms, sinking sharp teeth through that burr-rough skin of the throat with ambrosia running hot and living just underneath. There was a soft sound as the fresh metallic tang burst over his tongue - 

_“Dean,”_ whispered like a lover, and then _life_ was washing over him, his whole body alight with it, the sound of blood rushing, heart pounding (his or his prey’s, he couldn’t know, not until one stopped and one pounded stronger).

 _“Fuck,”_ he managed, mouth wet with blood, across his nose, his face, felt it dripping warm down his neck, soaking his shirt, and he pressed his lips again into that sweet font. “Taste so good,” he rumbled, stars bursting on his tongue. “ _Need_...need _more._ ,” and he was pressing his whole body against his gasping prey, cock hard, chest wet and warm, listening to the pained sounds of the man under him, pulling him close. Felt hands gentle in his hair before it was finally too much and he lost himself in the taste-sound-feel of this entire universe in his arms.

* * *

“Bring the car,” Castiel told Sam, holding Dean against him where he’d finally succumbed to the blood.

Sam nodded, wide eyed, and then ran to pull the Impala around.

“Drive us back, and then get food. He’ll need meat. Iron. He’ll be hungry.”

“Is he gonna be okay?”

Castiel couldn’t answer. He just ran fingers through Dean’s hair as he knit his own arteries and veins, muscles and skin back together. There was likely to be more hunger to come, but he’d feed that when it rose, however it manifested.

They were still five minutes from the motel when Dean’s body seized up, back arched, screaming rough and hellish.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked, voice clipped with suppressed fear.

“He’s going through the transformation.”

“Didn’t he already do that?”

“Back. He’s coming back.”

“Oh, God.”

“God has nothing to do with this.”

* * *

Dean woke _hungry_. That gnawing ache, hollow again, still, always yawning and crying and demanding. God, he _needed_.

He opened his eyes slowly. He was inside ( _hungry_ ), on a couch ( _need it_ ), and someone was sitting at the table in front of him. Someone else ( _warm, sweet, smell of drying blood_ ) was sitting next to him. ( _Drink your fill_ ).

“Dean?” The one at the table turned, and it was...Sam. His brother. Sam. 

Sam stepped close, pulse pounding in his throat just under the soft skin there, so close. Slightly blue.

Off limits. His brother. He’d give anything to keep him safe.

( _just a taste?_ )

_No._

“You hungry?” Sam asked, and Dean squeezed his fist, fingernails into palm, hard enough to make his hand bleed. He could smell it, copper tang and sage. It paled next to the other things - living blood, and under that, carrion.

“Yes,” Dean finally grated out between his teeth, trying not to lift his chin to scent the air.

Sam handed him a cheeseburger. Rare meat ( _carrion smell_ ), cheese, bread ( _no_ ). He took the bun off the next one, swallowed it. Again. Again. Twelve more, and it still wasn’t filling the pit.

“Still hungry?” The voice came from beside him. Quiet. And that was Castiel. 

Dean remembered how he _tasted_...he stiffened, shivered with the memory of it. But, no. He was a friend. He was important. He _felt_ important. And the hunger was different, darker and harder and _powerful._ ( _Want him, want to fuck him, want to feel him, want to suck him dry_ ).

Dean nodded, unable to speak.

“For food?”

Dean shook his head slowly. _No._

The hunger was low. Insidious. Filling him up and begging to be satisfied. His erection was painful, and the hunger was building.

“I know you prefer females, but I think it would be safer if you used me. Is that acceptable?” Cas asked. 

As if Dean had never looked at him and wanted. 

Dean glanced at Sam and something flared; he leaned forward to hide himself.

“Sam, you need to leave,” he said in a low growl.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked, eyes flitting between them fearfully. “Cas,” he sounded accusing and a little shocked. “Are you...are you talking...like… _sex_? I don’t think-”

“Get. _Out_ ,” Dean growled, and something must have come out in his voice, something angry and desperate and wanting, because Sam took a step back.

“I will take care of him, Sam,” Cas promised, and there might have been more to the exchange, but Dean couldn’t hear over the thunder of his own pulse. 

“Fuck,” Dean managed. “It’s bad, Cas, I can’t _control_ \- I don’t wanna hurt you…”

Cas was already pulling off his coat and tie, folding them and setting them on the table. 

“I can heal myself, Dean. It’s fine.”

Sparks ran through his body, lighting a fire that nearly consumed him. God, he needed, but _this_ …

“No, Jesus, if you have to _heal_ yourself...” More proof that Dean was still a monster.

“Take off your clothes,” Cas said quietly. He was slipping off his white boxers, and Dean’s vision was narrowing, tunneling, and fuck he couldn’t _stand_ it. Couldn’t just stand still when Cas was right there, strong, half hard, just waiting to be taken. He shed his clothes like snakeskin, dried blood flaking off as he threw them to the side.

Cas laid down on the bed face down and it would have been easy ( _take him_ ), but he couldn’t, not like that, cold and transactional. Dean felt sick. 

Dean swore at him. “Fuck, no, not like that,” he grated out. “Need to see you.”

He grabbed Cas’s shoulder and flipped him over, met his eyes and begged silently for forgiveness before straddling his hips, grabbing desperately for lube from the drawer. 

Next to the Bible.

“Fuck,” he said again. “Need - _dammit_ , Cas. You okay?” He asked the question knowing it was probably already too late. His hips were pressing desperately against nothing and the hunger was rising to a fever pitch. 

“It’s okay,” Cas reassured him, touching him gently and God, that was a fucking knife in his gut. He was too far gone to return that kindness, he had nothing to offer Cas right now. He slid down between Cas’s legs, tried to capture one leg gently to spread him open, make it easier on him.

“Dean, you don’t - ”

“ _Give me_ your damn leg,” he spat, and Cas did, finally. Dean could hardly feel anything beyond the raw need, he was almost out of time. He pulled that long leg against his chest to fold Cas up, spread him wide. Dean fumbled the lube open and squeezed it recklessly with one shaking hand. 

His cock was purple and distended and it felt like a goddamn grenade. His hips were moving again, fucking against the bed, desperate and needing, and he pressed a lube-slick finger into Cas impatiently, and it wasn't how he wanted this, but God, he _wanted_ it. Cas was taut like a bow, and made noises that made Dean thrust desperately against his thigh and _Jesus_ , he couldn’t wait another second, he just fucking _couldn’t_. He pressed another finger in, tried so hard to wait, to open, to prepare Cas, but the hunger was gnawing and blinding and he was _drowning_ in it. He took great gulps of air and pressed in ( _yes, yes_ ), saw how Cas’s face knotted in pain - guilt rose, bitter like bile, and then he was _under_ , torn away by the need to chase. He pounded single-mindedly now, pressing hard and deep and utterly uncaring, hunting his release like something wild.

He caught it, growling like a feral thing as he came in hot bursts, and then the dark hold on him gentled. He was still in the grip of the need, still had to move, but finally, he could hear Cas, could feel him - the slick, carnal _inside_ of him but also the gentleness of his hand around Dean’s wrist, his leg curled against Dean’s knee. Could hear him, mouth open and panting, breath fast, and it didn’t sound like pain. Seeing Cas that way, the way he'd always secretly hoped, it felt like an open wound, raw. Worse than anything that had come before. It was evil to _like_ it. Evil to still want it, even back in his body and seeing what he’d done. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. He still couldn’t stop moving, could only slow it, minimize the length of his thrusts. “Dammit, Cas, I’m so sorry.”

“Dean…” Cas’s voice was startlingly low, like gravel. “Please, I need…” he threw his head back, mouth open and panting, and it felt like maybe he had a hunger of his own that Dean could satisfy.

Dean took as much control of his movement as he could, changed the angle, shifted the line of Cas’s leg against him. Leaned in and kissed Cas’s neck. “Okay?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, Dean, _don’t stop_ ,” Cas breathed reverently, and Dean couldn't tell the difference anymore between Cas’s hunger, and his, and whatever darkness might still be pumping through his veins.

“Wanna make it good for you,” he whispered against Cas’s neck. “Never meant to hurt you, never wanted...” Choked on his regret. Pressed gentle and careful, and if Cas had to heal himself after this, Dean would never forgive himself.

Cas still smelled like a supernova, still tasted like the finest wine, still felt like divinity itself, and maybe it was what was left of the vampire he’d been and maybe it was what Dean always knew Cas would be if he ever got to worship him like this.

Cas pulled him in for a kiss and it was everything he never dared to hope, and if this was all he ever got in eternity, it was still more than he deserved.

Dean gripped Cas’s cock where it was pressed between them, moved his palm slowly over the thick length, watched Cas’s mouth fall open again, eyes fluttering closed, face coming alive. Fingers twisted in the sheets, and this was what it should have been, this sharing of sensation and breath, not that desperate rutting and hunger where it had started. 

Dean pressed carefully. Stroked. Twisted fingers, slicked palm, lips opened against blood crusted throat ( _I’m sorry_ ), wind-wild hair ( _my love_ ), wide panting lips ( _come for me_ ), and they tipped over nearly together - Cas first ( _you were always meant to be first_ ), and then Dean tumbling after.

Dean pulled out slowly and gave Cas some distance, rolling to the edge of the bed and sitting up to hang his legs over the edge.

He shivered.

“Better?” Cas asked carefully.

Dean nodded. “Yes. Thank you.” He felt himself blush, warm and vulnerable.

“That was enjoyable,” Cas said, reaching for his hand.

It was impossible to know if he meant it. “I...God-,” Dean said finally, moving his hand away. _You really took one for the team_. But he can’t joke yet. “Did I...hurt you?”

Cas stretched carefully. “Nothing that needs attention,” he said finally.

“Good, good. Look…” he pressed a hand to his face, scrubbed his neck. “That was all wrong. I shouldn’t have...Jesus _Christ_ , your first time. Rough and...dammit, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not,” Cas told him quietly. “You did nothing wrong. You couldn’t have controlled it, Dean. It would have hurt you.” 

Dean still couldn’t look at him. “I hurt _you_.”

“Only at first. It took -”

Dean suddenly felt like he was going to puke. _Only at first_.

“Dean. it’s not your fault, and I’m all right. You could...show me. Sometime. The right way.”

Dean started, looked over to see Cas looking back questioningly. Dean didn’t deserve this. Not forgiveness. Not this...possibility. Nothing like this. Never did. Certainly not now.

“Dean, will you - you need to rest. Please,” Cas patted the bed. 

“I’ll just-” He pointed at the other bed.

Cas’s jaw worked slowly and he curled into himself. Something like shame, like hurt. “I’d - if that’s what you want.”

Dean scrubbed his face. He was doing it all wrong. Still. Again. “No, no. I want you...I want you to be okay. What do you...what do you need?”

“I'd prefer that you stayed here. If it’s all right,” Cas said softly.

Dean hesitated, but only for a second. It felt presumptuous, but this wasn’t about him. _His guilt, his screw-ups_. This was about Cas. “You got it,” he said finally.

The emptiness that remained wasn’t vampiric. It was just...what was left. _After_.

Cas pulled him close, arms folded around his chest. His whisper was almost too low to hear, “ _I thought I lost you._ ” 

Dean gripped his forearm in response, pressed lips back against his bicep. “ _Never,_ ” he whispered.

The emptiness wasn’t filled by the way Cas’s arms fit around Dean or the way his lips pressed into Dean’s neck.

Not filled, but lessened. 

Dean fell asleep with the universe in his arms, and the yawning blackness inside him slept, too.


End file.
